Ouran
by littlechivalry
Summary: *Temporary title* One night an accident happens that may change the way the Host Club considers their leader forever. Pre-slesh, kind of, Tamaki/Kyoya. Angst


**Disclaimer**: I do not own these characters or this world. I had an idea for a story and wanted to give it a try.

(_12345_)

**Ouran**

It was easy to smile, even when he didn't feel like it. His face just fell naturally into the sparkling curve of lip and eye.

And it was easy to say the flattering words that fell from his mouth like pearls, or honey. He didn't have to mean them, just say them well, with the warm tone and gracious gestures he'd been taught from childhood.

And then, when all of the pretty princesses went home, when his little Host Club family left to their own activities, he could be himself, by himself.

The Host Club closed early today. Karate Club had a competition and Hunny and Mori were attending. Hikaru and Kaoru had gone to a fashion show with their mother, and Kyoya managed to convince Haruhi to give him some of her things to auction off and lower her debt.

The two of them were probably rifling through her locker right now.

And so Tamaki was alone.

He was supposed to have dinner with his father, but the Chairman cited work obligations and said they would have to reschedule, so Tamaki decided to allow himself some time for a sincere brood.

He had brooded before, usually in a very obvious and ostentatious fashion, wailing and hiding in front of everyone, so no one had any excuse not to see him; but sometimes he needed to be sad alone, in a quieter fashion.

Absently, almost enjoying the dense sorrow, Tamaki moved around the room, collecting abandoned cups and saucers, plates and silver. A small kitchen area sat behind one of the enveloping curtains at the corner of the room and months ago he had discovered the common people's pleasure of washing things by hand.

As he scrubbed away pastry crumbs and tea stains, he let his mind wander.

At this moment in time, his father would be in a meeting, leading the proceedings with a flourish and the devil's glint in his eyes. He would make his subordinates jump through flaming hoops to achieve what he asked of them, and at the end of the day they would thank him for it.

At this moment in time, his grandmother would be in her study, making lace, a commoner's pastime of her own but one she enjoyed if what he learned from the maids was true. Each evening she turned on the radio to a baseball game and sat in her favorite chair to twine together the delicate threads while she cheered on her favorite teams. He was told she enjoyed hot chocolate. Some evenings at this time he got a cup for himself at home and pretended he was sitting with her, absently enjoying the play of the lamp light over the shining needle.

At this moment in time, his mother was—

And here is where the imagining always ended, for in truth he had no idea where his mother was, or what she might be doing.

Tamaki scrubbed the forks fiercely, dislodging bits of cake caught between the tines and cemented in place by thick sugary frosting.

He knew his mother was alive and healthy; he refused to accept any other idea. She might be on safari in Africa, or yachting around Alaska . She might be shopping in Italy and eating in Russia , or the other way around.

He fished blindly in the sudsy water and felt his fingers brush over a thick wooden handle before

something sharp and startling hit his wrist.

He felt it drag over his flesh as he pulled his arm out of the warm water and saw the blood.

Pulling the chain, he released the plug and the water lowered, revealing a foot long kitchen knife and a few damp melon seeds.

And more blood, drifting peacefully through the sudsy water and down the drain.

Tamaki grabbed a clean towel from the drawer and wrapped it tightly around his arm. Blood quickly soaked through the snowy fabric from his wrist to his elbow. He moved out of the kitchen area, awkwardly pushing aside the heavy curtain with his elbow. A wave of dizziness overcame him and he stumbled, falling heavily onto one of the lounging couches.

He knew he had to get up, to get help, but he was so dizzy. He needed to rest for a minute to clear his head.

(_12345_)

"So not only do I have to give up half of my pencils, two notebooks, and my favorite mug, but I have to carry it myself?"

Kyoya smiled slightly, "Just so. And thank you for your cooperation."

Haruhi huffed, and gripped the tattered handles of the plastic bag tighter.

Kyoya bit back a chuckle. Being the Shadow King of the Host Club had its perks, and his favorite one was making people dance to his will, whether it was something as minor as how they would style their hair, or giving up treasured items for no better reason than that he said to.

He saw Haruhi roll her eyes and smiled again, returning his face to its usual expression of benevolent tyranny.

The door to the Host club was shut tight, as Kyoya expected, but there was a pale light streaming out from under the heavy mahogany.

"I thought everyone left," Haruhi noted.

"So did I," Kyoya replied, preoccupied. According to his schedule everyone should be gone, even Tamaki. Kyoya had been looking forward to doing the club's accounting in peace and quiet, but it seemed as though this wasn't to be.

Fishing the sturdy brass key from his pocket, he reached for the handle, surprised when it turned easily.

"Not locked?"

Without looking, Kyoya could hear a tint of smugness in the girl's voice. He opened the door, turning back to Haruhi, "It was probably just Tamaki. He's having dinner with his father tonight and he was so excit-- what?"

Behind him, Haruhi paled dramatically. He followed her stare and saw Tamaki lying on one of the couches, a red-stained towel lying on the floor next to him.

Kyoya heard the items Haruhi was carrying tumble to floor, but the sound was distant over his pounding heart.

He would never remember getting from the door to the couch, but somehow he was there, two fingers pressed to the violet-eyed boy's throat, and prayers running through his mind. Next to him, Haruhi had grabbed the towel and pressed it firmly against the still-bleeding wound in Tamaki's arm.

Tamaki's heart was beating, but it seemed weak, thready. With his free hand, Kyoya pulled his phone out of his pocket and called for an ambulance.

Kyoya and Haruhi waited in silence for the ambulance, as Tamaki bled between them. For a moment, it looked as though he would wake. He shifted slightly and his brow furrowed, but nothing happened.

Haruhi grew paler every second that the ambulance did not arrive.

"You don't think he —on purpose," Haruhi asked hesitantly.

Kyoya shook his head firmly, and Haru sighed, relieved. But truthfully, Kyoya wasn't so sure. He thought he knew Tamaki well enough to make such an assertion, but the boy could still be an enigma sometimes.

Though Haruhi's color had improved, the girl still looked sick. Kyoya pulled her hands away from the red towel, taking her place, and told her to wait in the hall for the paramedics.

Shakily, she agreed, and went off, rubbing her red-stained hands on the thick fabric of her trousers.

Holding the towel tight against Tamaki's arm, Kyoya tried to ignore the sticky sensation of the towel against his palms, tried to look anywhere in the room but down where he felt the heavy warmth of Tamaki's blood soaking into his shirt cuff, or over at the boys blank face.

The further away Haruhi moved the more concerned Kyoya let himself feel. He had to maintain a certain attitude in front of his fellow hosts, in front of the school, in front of his family, but Tamaki had always seen through them.

"You'd better wake up. Idiot."

Beside him the boy muttered quietly, "Mother," and a tear drifted past the dark eyelashes over the pale cheek.

"I'm here."

Kyoya didn't know if Tamaki was talking to him, or to his own distant mother, but in her absence, he would do his best to care for her son.

He pressed the vivid red towel harder against Tamaki's arm. The blood might have stopped, but Kyoya didn't want to take the chance that it hadn't just to check.

(_12345_)

Red and blue lights painted the marble walls of the music room, streaming in through the balcony doors. The sirens were muted, or maybe they just seemed that way through the thick fog in Kyoya's mind.

The paramedics had been quick and efficient, checking Tamaki's pulse and blood pressure, applying pressure bandages to his wrist, moving him gently from the couch to a cot and onto the ambulance.

Haruhi had volunteered to stay behind and clean the… blood… from the floor and couch. A police officer found the knife in the sink and determined that it was an accident, and Kyoya persuaded him to keep the information discrete.

"Are you coming, sir?"

Kyoya looked up from his seat on a sturdy wooden chair, the bloody towel still draped across his knees, "Yes?"

"Are you coming in the ambulance?" The paramedics voice was even and calm, as though he dealt with these situations every day, which may have been true.

Kyoya stood, gripping the towel, and followed the man to the ambulance where Tamaki waited, pale and unconscious, a thin tube carrying red blood to his mangled veins.

(_12345_)

**Note**: This is only my second story for a anime/manga, and my first for Ouran High School Host Club. I have tentatively started chapter two, but I haven't gotten very far and I was hoping posting this chapter and seeing what response I got might jolt me into writing more so review and tell me what you think.

I made milk come out of my brother's nose this morning. Review or the same could happen to you or someone you love.


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